


The Distance

by Colorado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Love, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorado/pseuds/Colorado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The murder of Maria Gibson on the very day Sherlock and Molly enter into a new "understanding" forces the brilliant detective to face the fact he has no idea how to do relationships. Or feelings. Or love. </p><p>As he realizes the distance between him and the gentle pathologist will either disappear or become insurmountable, Sherlock must stay on a murderer's trail. A Sherlolly mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_1\. No copyright infringement is intended. All credit goes to the brilliance of Conan Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss._

_2\. This story starts where my story "Broken Pieces" ends. You don't have to read "Broken Pieces" to follow this story, but it would help a few references make sense._

_3\. Inspired by_ "The Problem of Thor Bridge" _by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It_ _was the first Sherlock Holmes mystery I saw dramatized on PBS’s_ Mystery! _starring Jeremy Brett. I always felt sorry for Mrs. Gibson._

_4\. Inspired by_ "The Distance" _by Christina Perri_

~s~s~s~s~

It was just after dawn and bitterly cold. The early spring wind had blown all night, chasing away storm clouds, shaking windows, sending discarded papers skirting down the sidewalk. Now all that remained was a stiff breeze and dropping temperatures.

Molly pulled the wool blanket to her chin and shivered. Staring at the hairline crack in her bedroom ceiling, she focused on it instead of the man who slept a few inches away. After a minute, she realized it was impossible. She had to look at him. It was too remarkable of a moment not to.

What she saw made her smile: Dark curls tumbling over his forehead, his classical features uncharacteristically at peace. The Cupid's bow mouth turned up in a dreamy smile. Sooty black lashes resting in a fringe over alabaster skin.

She could check another one off her Top Sherlock Holmes Fantasies list, even though how he came to be in her bed hadn't played out as she always had hoped. They had fallen asleep—her beneath the covers, him above—after talking into the night.

Molly decided it still counted.

She bit her lip. Months earlier he had told her he couldn't love anyone; she never asked why. But last night he declared she was _his pathologist_ , which in Sherlock language meant he cared for her, at least a little. But that was all right with Molly. She had love enough for two.

As if he could read her thoughts in his dreams, Sherlock's blue eyes snapped open. "Hello."

"Good morning," she said shyly.

Gone was the comforting darkness that had encouraged her to speak freely. Now everything was stark and clear and imperfect. Molly nervously twirled a strand of her long chestnut-brown hair.

"I can make some coffee. I'm not sure if I have any eggs, but I do have bread. Or I could run out and get us—"

Sherlock stifled a yawn and rolled on his side to face her. "You are babbling needlessly, no doubt because you are afraid I regret what I said about you being _my_ pathologist."

"And do you? Regret it?"

He saw uncertainty in her eyes. He had no experience dealing with such feelings. Perhaps she could see this about him in the cold morning light. Suddenly he felt uncertain, too.

"Do you have regrets?" he asked.

She smiled radiantly. "Not one."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Then it is settled."

Molly would have liked a little more definition as to what "it" meant to Sherlock. Instead she asked, "What about that coffee?"

"And toast."

Pausing in the bathroom, Molly gasped when she looked in the mirror. Her hair seemed to have doubled in volume over night and mascara streaked under her eyes.

"Great. I look like a Tim Burton creature," she said and scrubbed her face clean. There was nothing to be done about her hair until she could wash it, so she smoothed it down as best she could and slipped on a pink headband.

It was Sunday, and like every Sunday he sat on her old floral sofa, scanning his mobile.

"Any new cases?" she asked, getting out two cups.

"No," he said glumly. "Just a text from John asking how you are feeling."

"Tell him I'm fine. No ill effects after last night's…events."

Sherlock noted the sad quality in her voice. "Molly, dwelling on what happened with Todd is pointless."

Preoccupied, she shook her head. "I have a lot of lessons to learn. One day I'll sit down and figure them out."

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock said, "Todd is gone. You still have the necklace. We have a new understanding. These are all positives."

Molly's smile was strained as she filled the kettle. "I know."

Sherlock quickly calculated how often Molly might display unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotions such as this. He knew Todd's betrayal had hurt her, but he had no idea how to help her.

"I do not have a case. I’m bored."

His silken voice directly behind her made her shiver, but it wasn't cold in the kitchen. In fact, to Molly it felt a few degrees hotter. She looked into his blue eyes.

"Don't worry. I'm sure a horrible new murder for you to solve will happen any day now."

~s~s~s~s~

If Maria Gibson weren't a stubborn woman of habit, she could have enjoyed the warm pleasure of her down comforter a little longer. But it was Sunday, and Sunday meant getting a run in before the kids got up.

Putting her dark hair in a ponytail before pulling on a striped knit cap, Maria wore several layers under her blue running pants and matching jacket. She jogged several blocks, passing the corner coffee shop and its tempting aromas before heading to the park. It didn't take long for her to start sweating. Neil called it her "overactive Latin cooling system." He would never say, "sweat." Perspire, maybe.

Her husband used to join her on these runs, but lately his work had preoccupied him. And more than likely, he was having another affair. She thought that he might fancy their nanny, but she had decided against that idea. With strawberry blonde hair, Grace Dunbar was a pretty little thing, a bit wide across the hips with a tiny waist and a flat chest. Not Neil's type at all.

Luciana constantly asked her why she put up with his infidelity. Maria explained that her husband had a wandering eye, but he always came home to her. And she loved him passionately.

As two men jogged past her in the opposite direction, Maria could sense their admiring stares. For a woman approaching forty, she knew she looked ten years younger, and her figure didn't betray the fact she had borne two children. She thanked her mother, God rest her soul, for good Brazilian genes.

A fine mist of droplets fell from the trees arching over the running path. Maria shivered. She would never get used to living in this climate, even if she lived in London for another five years.

Spying Thor Bridge in the distance, she glanced at her watch. If she continued at this pace, she would be home in plenty of time to shower before making Sophie and John their breakfast.

But it was all a moot point.

She had less than five minutes to live.

~s~s~s~s~

"You look different."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to where John Watson sat. "How?"

"Not sure."

"That is imprecise of you."

John grinned. He knew exactly why: The world's only consulting detective was _happy,_ but if John said that, it would lead to a fight he wasn't in the mood for.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, then returned to plucking the strings of his violin.

"If you are implying something about my friendship with Molly, you do not need to."

"Really? Just friends?"

"Yes, we are friends, just like you and I are friends.” Sherlock's blue-green eyes hardened. “But, of course, it is different."

John stared at his best friend for a long moment. He knew Sherlock's continuing cluelessness shouldn't surprise him. Sherlock probably had never been in a real relationship. Sighing, John continued to type his latest blog post on the murder of Gert Morceaux. Writing was easier than educating Sherlock on what was proper behavior with women. He wondered how long it would be until Sherlock gave up these pretenses and called what he felt for Molly Hooper what it was: love.

"Hoo-hoo, Sherlock, your appointment's here!" Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady, led a small, slender woman up the stairs.

John was on his feet immediately. "Ms. De Silva? Please come in."

He was struck by the woman's distinctive beauty. High cheekbones rose in perfect symmetry above full, naturally red lips. Her dark hair, cropped in an angled bob, was shiny and lustrous. Even though she wore all in black, Ms. De Silva's curvy figure couldn't be diminished.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Clutching a tissue, the woman's red-rimmed eyes threatened to fill again.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," said the detective, not bothering to turn from the window. "This is my associate, Dr. John Watson."

"I—I'm sorry."

After thanking Mrs. Hudson, John gestured for their client to sit. "How can we be of help?"

She swallowed hard. "Three days ago my sister was killed."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," John said sincerely.

"And the police have no leads?" asked Sherlock, already bored.

"No, they made an arrest hours after her body was found."

John looked up from the notes he was taking in surprise. "They have? Who?"

"A man at a nearby homeless camp had her mobile and her watch. He claimed he found them on the street," Ms. De Silva said. "He has a long record of robberies and assaults."

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock shifted his weight.

John quickly said, "I'm confused. If the police have caught the murderer, why do you need our help?"

"Because that man didn't do it."

Sherlock turned abruptly. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because her husband did it. Neil killed Maria."

"Explain," Sherlock said.

"He has cheated on her for years. Maria told me just last week that she suspected he was seeing someone new."

"He was an adulterer. That does not make him a murderer."

John shot Sherlock a disapproving look before addressing their client kindly. "What makes you think he killed her?"

In a flash of anger, Luciana De Silva stood and began pacing.

"Because Neil Gibson is a cold-hearted bastard who broke her heart! He wanted to be rid of her so he could be with his new girlfriend."

"Wait, Neil Gibson? Gibson Consolidated? Neil Gibson, the 'Gold King'?"

She nodded. "He came from Montana to Brazil when we were just girls. He worked with our papa in mining and they built an empire together. Maria fell in love with him."

"But you did not like him?" Sherlock asked, sitting in the chair Luciana had just vacated. John quickly stood so she could sit down.

"I hated him!" she said passionately.

"That still does not make him a murderer," Sherlock said. "But first I need to have data. How was she killed?"

Luciana's face fell. "While she was out for a run in Maplewood Park, he beat her head in. She was found discarded like trash near Thor Bridge."

"Did she run there regularly?"

"Every Sunday, rain or shine." She stood. "Mr. Holmes, Maria dedicated her life to Neil and their children. She suffered in silence as he humiliated her with one girl after another because she loved him. She did not deserve this."

Thoughtfully tapping his pointer fingers together, the detective agreed. "I will take your case, Ms. De Silva. Goodbye."

Luciana hesitated and looked to John.

"We'll be in touch, Ms. De Silva. Let me walk you out."

The doctor returned to find Sherlock buttoning up his trademark black coat.

"Where are you off to?"

"St. Bart's. I need to see the body."

"All right. I'm off to the clinic, so I'll see you later," John said. "And Sherlock? Say hello to Molly for me."

As the detective walked down the stairs, he thought he heard his friend snickering.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock found Molly exactly where he knew she would be, finishing up her daily paperwork. Smiling warmly, she stood as he approached.

“I was hoping you would stop by!”

“Why?” Sherlock’s glacial stare thawed as she playfully swatted him on the arm.

“Because I have something I wanted to talk to you about.” Molly happily thrust a colorful brochure into his hands.

He casually turned it over. “An exhibit on human anatomy?”

“At the Natural History Museum. See, it opens on Monday, but members can get a sneak peek at the preview tomorrow night.”

Sherlock looked baffled. “I have studied human anatomy extensively and would say I am expert. So are you. What could we possibly learn from this?”

Molly’s brown eyes crinkled in amusement. “We wouldn’t go to _learn_ , Sherlock. We’d go because it’s something we’re both interested in. Afterward we could get something to eat. It would be . . . a date. Our first real, proper date.”

She tried to catch his eye, but he continued to stare intently at the brochure. Unnerved by his lack of response, she bit her lower lip. “Or we could do something else. Just dinner? Um, never mind. It’s OK.”

Blushing furiously, Molly quickly turned her attention back to the stacks of files on her crowded desk. Perhaps Sherlock had wanted to plan their first date. She hoped she hadn’t stolen his thunder.

On the contrary, the detective had no idea that Molly would want to go on a date at all or why one was even required. He understood the purpose of going out was for two people get to know one another, but he knew Molly already. Dates also helped two people who liked one another spend time together. But he and Molly could spend time together in the morgue or at her flat on Sundays. Going to a museum and having dinner was unnecessary.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She had been so happy when he had walked through the double doors of the lab, but now all he observed about her was anxiety.

Sherlock nodded. “The exhibit would be nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Really? You want to go?” Molly positively beamed.

“Yes.” He folded the brochure neatly and put it in his coat pocket. “But right now I need to see Maria Gibson’s body.”

After Molly unzipped the body bag, Sherlock slowly circled the table. 

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Molly was used to dead bodies, but this murder was particularly gruesome. “Our old friend the blunt instrument did its job.”

Sherlock leaned forward to have a closer look. “How were you able to make an identification without dental records?”

“Fingerprints. See these abrasions on her palms and knees? I think she was struck from behind and fell before the murderer started beating her.”

“Good observation, Molly,” he said with a smile. “Thank you. I have seen all that I need to.”

“Are you off then?” She walked briskly to keep up with him.

“I will text you about tomorrow. Right now I must tell Lestrade that his Keystone Cops have arrested the wrong man.”

~s~s~s~s~

“It’s an open-and-shut case, Sherlock. I don’t know why you’re sticking your nose in it at all.” Lestrade shrugged out of his coat as Sherlock followed him into his office.

“My client believes you have arrested the wrong man, and she is quite right.”

“Your client must be Luciana De Silva, yeah? She seems determined to have her sister’s husband arrested when there is no evidence.”

“She contends Gibson might have wanted his wife out of the way so he could pursue a new relationship,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade sat down and flipped on his computer. “I looked into it. It’s all over the gossip sites that he had mistresses, but he has an alibi for the time of the murder. He was Skyping with investors in Shanghai.”

Sherlock’s patience was stretched thin. “Did you see the victim’s face, or what is left of it? A common thief would not kill a woman in this manner just for a phone. This was a crime of passion.”

“Brutality doesn’t mean some strung-out meth head couldn’t have done it. Sam Clark was as high as Big Ben when we arrested him.”

“It is illogical.”

“Maybe so, Spock, but I’ve known addicts to do all manner of illogical things when they’re high. And you have, too.”

Ignoring Lestrade’s knowing look, Sherlock began to send a text. “Sam Clark didn’t commit this crime. Only someone emotionally invested would destroy a woman’s face in that manner. And if she looked anything like her sister, Mrs. Gibson was a beautiful woman.”

“You notice that kind of thing now?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows, earning him a scowl. “Yes, Mrs. Gibson was beautiful. She and your client were twins.”

Sherlock considered this information. “What other evidence do you have?”

“None. No witnesses, no physical evidence—”

“That Anderson observed, you mean,” Sherlock said snidely.

“All right then, Sherlock. Goodbye.” Lestrade pointed to the door. “Have a nice afternoon. Leave!”

~s~s~s~s~

Neil Gibson’s mother always said her youngest son was born stubborn, charming, and highly intelligent. With an insurance salesman for a father and a nurse for a mother, Neil was determined to leave his Midwestern America roots behind to accomplish what he considered greater things. Tests conducted at a young age showed a very high IQ, but when he was bored, Neil didn’t bother to go to school. However, if a subject interested him, he was at the top of his class. It all depended on what he wanted at the moment.

Thoroughly fed up by the time the boy finished high school, Neil’s father reached his breaking point when Neil chose, of all impractical things, geology for a major. A huge blowout led to Gibson Senior screaming that Neil would never amount to anything. That was all the incentive Neil needed to leave home and never look back.

He spent his early twenties crisscrossing the country, working different jobs. When he turned twenty-nine, Neil met Juan De Silva on a plane to Bogota. Depending on who told the story, Juan asked for Neil’s help in improving his mining company’s operations. That was Neil’s version at least. But there was no doubt that within several years of Neil coming on board, business boomed. Neil became known as the “Gold King,” not because he struck a rich vein of ore, but because he helped develop a new process to separate gold from other minerals.

Juan’s daughters, Maria and Luciana, had just turned sixteen when Neil stormed into town. Neil had known his share of lovely women, but these girls were something special. Even at their young age, he could tell they would become remarkably beautiful women. Maria, the more outgoing of the two, always paid attention to what he had to say and showed great interest in his work. It was easy enough to marry her when she came of age, which helped smoothed things over when he bought out her father’s shares in the company.

The business grew exponentially, mainly due to Neil’s ruthlessness. He expanded to other industries and relocated the company and his small family to London when he completed a hostile takeover of a telecommunications company. Gibson Consolidated now occupied the bottom four floors of Gibson Plaza in the heart of London’s financial district. Unlike other companies that demanded the top floors to command a view of the city, Gibson preferred to be closer to the ground. He wanted visitors to his building to know whose world they were entering.

It was just after lunch on Thursday when Sherlock pushed through the revolving doors of the glass-and-chrome tower and strode across the sleek, black lobby. John stood waiting for him near a modern bronze sculpture in front of the bank of elevators.

“I got your text.”

“Clearly.”

“How did you get an appointment with him on such short notice?”

“Mycroft threatened to hold up some merger or another if Gibson refused to see me. My brother can be useful at times,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

The elevator directly in front of them opened with a ding.

“Hold the lift! Wait!” A small, nervous-looking man squeezed through the closing doors as Sherlock pushed the button for the fourth floor.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked, agitated.

 “I am.”

“My name is Martin Bates. I’m an accountant here. I recognized you from Dr. Watson’s blog. I also overheard Mr. Gibson’s secretary saying how angry he was that he has been forced to talk to you.” The man pushed the pause button and the elevator came to a stop.

Alarmed, John quickly was on the defensive, but Sherlock remained calm and collected. “I am due in his office in three minutes.”

“Then I’ll be brief. Gibson is evil.”

“That is strong language, Mr. Bates.”

“Don’t be fooled by his PR spin. He’ll try to tell you about his charities and good deeds, but the truth is that he will use anyone, do anything, and lie to get his way.”

“I am not easily fooled,” Sherlock snapped.

“Why are you telling us this?” John demanded.

Bates pushed the start button and the elevator hummed upward. “I met his wife a few times. We all liked her and felt for her and hated him for how he treated her. I don’t know if he killed her, but I do know there isn’t a woman here that he didn’t make a pass at.”

As the doors glided open, Mr. Bates quickly stepped out, but he turned one last time before hurrying off. “The man has ice water in his veins.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a very loyal staff,” John observed.

“But the warning might prove to be a useful one,” Sherlock said and walked toward the executive suite.

~s~s~s~s~

Neil Gibson kept them waiting for fifteen minutes. By the time Sherlock and John were admitted into the sparsely decorated office, Sherlock was seething, but not so much that he couldn’t make several swift observations about the billionaire.

The man was of average height but had the long, lean lines of a swimmer. His black hair was tinged with white at the temples, which gave him an air of respectability that was quickly lost when his flinty, black eyes flashed coldly. He gave off the impression that he was brutal and was aware that he did because he tried to disguise it with good grooming. His well-cut pinstripe suit didn’t have a crease and his heavily Botoxed face indicated an increasing vanity.

Gibson sat at a large desk in a larger chair across from a matching credenza as sunlight spilled through wide-paned windows. This was his kingdom, and he was letting them know they were trespassers.

“You have five minutes,” Gibson announced in a voice that was heavily American but held traces of other influences.

“You are too generous,” Sherlock said. “I have been retained by your sister in law regarding your wife’s murder.”

“Lulu can’t accept the fact that the police have already found Maria’s killer. But you already know that.” Gibson looked the pair up and down. “I suppose you took this case for the money.”

“Money is irrelevant to me,” said Sherlock.

“Then it must be for the reputation you will gain by having your name associated with mine.”

“It may surprise you to learn, Mr. Gibson, that it is the problem itself that intrigues me, not notoriety. But we are wasting my five minutes. When was the last time you saw your wife?”

Gibson answered with all the emotion he might have in ordering Chinese food. “Sunday morning. She was going for her weekly run. I got up early because I had a call with China. I didn’t even know Maria hadn’t come home until the smoke alarm went off. My eight year old was trying to cook breakfast and burned the eggs.”

“Where was your nanny?”

“It was Grace’s day off.”

Sherlock assessed the photos on the credenza. Each silver frame contained a picture of Neil and a world leader or a famous actress. There was none of his wife and children. “What precisely is the nature of your relationship with Grace Dunbar?”

Mr. Gibson stood. “Get out of my office.”

“I still have two minutes left,” Sherlock stated.

“You’ve done yourself no good, Mr. Holmes. No man has ever crossed me and been the better for it.”

“So many have said so, and yet here I am,” said Sherlock, smiling. “Good day, Mr. Gibson.”

~s~s~s~s~

“How did you know Gibson had an affair with the nanny?” John asked as they entered the detective’s rooms.

“If what Bates said was true and Gibson had flirted with every woman in his office, then he most likely would not have any more ethics in his home. We will need to speak to Miss Dunbar as soon as possible.”

As Sherlock tossed his coat toward his chair, something fluttered to the ground.

“What’s this?” John picked up the brochure Sherlock had casually dropped.

“I am going to that exhibit. On a date.”

“A date?” John coughed. “You? On a date?”

“With Molly.”

“A date?” John echoed.

“It is something that will make Molly happy. As I recall, you told me to think about her feelings more often. I am willing to do this for her.”

John wasn’t sure where to begin. “Just showing up isn’t going to make Molly happy. She’ll have certain expectations.”

“Such as?” Sherlock looked owlish as he blinked at his former flatmate.

“She’ll expect you to be engaged, not distant. She’ll want you to enjoy yourself, not be all stone faced and cold. She may want you to…”

The silence at 221 B Baker Street was deafening.

“Yes?” an exasperated Sherlock finally asked.

“Oh God.” John scrubbed his hands over his face. “I really don’t want to do this, but we may need to have the talk—”

“Really, John?” Sherlock interrupted. “I hardly think that is necessary. Molly and I will go to the museum and then get something to eat at Angelo’s. It is quite simple. What can go wrong?”


	3. Chapter 3

Molly’s clothing trended toward comfort and practicality. She chose cheerful colors and prints not only because they reflected her personality, but also because they made her happy during her long shifts in the morgue. She had a few pencil skirts and professional blouses for the occasional meeting, and hanging behind her coat was a little black dress that all the magazines said she had to have. But none of those outfits would work for her date with Sherlock.

After spying Kelly Harper in the canteen wearing a cute herringbone jacket, Molly raced over to ask the nurse where she had got it. Pairing the new jacket with black jeans, tall boots, and a scarf, Molly felt as if she had pulled off a fashion coup. She was so pleased with herself that when Sherlock promptly arrived to pick her up for their date, she did a little twirl in front of him.

He took in her appearance. “You clearly want me to notice what you have on. While it is a different style than you usually wear, it is suitable and fits well.”

“Yes, but do you like it?” she asked hopefully.

Sherlock answered honestly. “I have no particular feelings about your outfit. Is it special?”

Deflated, Molly still managed a small smile. “No, I suppose it’s not. Shall we go?”

Her spirits picked up when he opened the door of the cab for her. She enjoyed every second of their ride to the museum, although it wasn’t remarkable. Sherlock scrolled through his messages, occasionally making an editorial comment about the sender; Molly chattered about recent hospital goings on. When the conversation lulled, she stole a glance at her companion’s dark suit and attractive white button up. She envied his ability to wear clothes with a casual elegance, as if he could care less but couldn’t help looking good in them.

The museum’s outdoor lighting made it look more like a theater as they pulled up. While Sherlock paid the cabbie, Molly made a mental note to check what was playing in the West End. She knew Sherlock wouldn’t enjoy _Wicked_ , but maybe she could find a good play or two he would tolerate. Grinning, she reminded herself that there would be many more dates to come.

Sherlock guided her through the crowd as they funneled into the human anatomy exhibit. Molly secretly pinched the back of her hand. It was real: She was on a date with Sherlock. As he had said, they had an “understanding.” Whatever that meant, it had to be a good thing.

“Isn’t this nice?” She smiled up at him.

Remembering John’s advice, Sherlock tried to look interested in their surroundings. “Very nice.”

They strolled through a display of figures that were lifelike, except they wore their insides on the outside.

“Molly, do you see how this is depicted?” Sherlock stared intently at one figure, but she was looking in the other direction.

“Here comes George Maynard, the curator. I met him the last time I came to a preview night.”

“Look at this,” Sherlock insisted. Molly followed his line of sight, and once she recognized what he was looking at, nodded once.

“Dr. Hooper, it’s good to see you again,” Mr. Maynard said. “And I certainly recognize whom you’re with. Mr. Holmes, it’s an honor to meet you. I follow Dr. Watson’s blog.”

Sherlock looked pleased to be recognized.

“We’re excited to see the new exhibit,” Molly gushed.

Mr. Maynard puffed up. “My staff worked very hard on it.”

“Really? I have spotted an error,” Sherlock stated.

“Sherlock!” Molly tried to laugh it off. “He’s joking, Mr. Maynard.”

“No, I’m not,” he said.

“I hardly think, Mr. Holmes—” The curator flushed pink all the way to his earlobes.

“Clearly, or you would have caught such an obvious mistake in the billiary tree on this figure,” Sherlock said.

Flustered, Molly took his arm. “Good evening, Mr. Maynard.”

“I was going to explain what was wrong,” Sherlock protested.

John never hesitated to correct Sherlock’s behavior, but she wasn’t accustomed to it nor was she sure she even wanted to.

“I know you didn’t mean to, but you embarrassed him.”

“You spotted the same mistake I did,” he said, amused. “You are a very good doctor.”

Molly blushed. “Well, yes, but that’s not the point. Never mind. Why don’t we keep looking?”

They strolled through an interactive exhibit on how muscles function to the display on the heart. It was laid out like a heart itself in four sections.

“Isn’t the heart fascinating? We think of it as the center of love, but what it does daily to keep us alive is gob smacking.” Molly peered into a display case. With a giggle, she pushed a button, causing a loud lub-dub sound to echo around them.

Sherlock began to reply when his mobile came to life. “Go on ahead. I will meet you in a few minutes.”

“I can wait for you,” Molly said willingly, but he shook his head.

“I need to take this.” He walked in the opposite direction.

Molly moved through the left ventricle to the aorta slowly, hoping Sherlock would catch up with her, but when he didn’t, she headed toward the exhibit exit. She looked left and right, finally spying him near the large windows.

“Everything OK?”

“It was Lestrade. I will consult with him tomorrow. I also have received a text from my client. Very annoying. She wants an update. John handles that sort of thing because he feels it is important to talk to the client.”

“And you don’t?” No matter how long she had known him, Sherlock continued to amaze Molly.

“The client in most cases does not help me solve the puzzle,” he stated. “He or she merely introduces me to it.”

Wanting to return to the exhibit, Molly nodded toward the foyer. “It looks like they’re serving drinks over there.”

“You appear to be correct,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you like a glass of wine?” she asked cheerfully.

Sherlock looked at his watch. “No, thank you. I am not thirsty.”

Molly bit her lower lip. He seemed restless, ready to leave.

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock suddenly asked. “We should go to Angelo’s.”

Molly brightened. “That sounds wonderful!”

~s~s~s~s~

Angelo seated the couple in a dark booth toward the back. “Anything you and your friend want, Sherlock, it’s on the house!” the large man said. “He’s a great one, our Sherlock. He’ll help you with whatever case you have, miss.”

Sherlock glanced at the menu and handed it back to Angelo. “Dr. Hooper is not a client. She is my date.”

The restaurateur ’s astonishment couldn’t be disguised. “Your date? A woman?”

Molly looked stricken, but Sherlock waved his friend off. “I’ll have the usual. Molly?”

“Oh, the penne would be lovely.”

The two sat quietly as an exotically beautiful woman approached their table.

“Mr. Holmes?” she asked in a velvety smooth voice.

“Ah, Ms. De Silva, this is Dr. Molly Hooper. Molly, this is Luciana De Silva, my client. You did an autopsy on her sister.”

The women regarded one another uncomfortably. Then the realization hit Molly and her mouth fell open.

“You invited your client to join us for dinner?”

“I told you she wanted an update.” Sherlock scooted over to give Luciana space to sit down. “She insisted on speaking in person. This was the most convenient way to give her one.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“You are correct. The homeless man did not kill your sister.”

As Angelo brought over the food, she nodded gravely. “It was Neil, wasn’t it?”

“I met him but have not determined yet whether he is the murderer. I can tell you he is having an affair with the nanny.”

After muttering in Portuguese what Molly could only assume was a string of colorful curse words, Luciana’s dark eyes burned with anger. “In my sister’s own home? The man has no shame.”

“What can you tell me about Grace Dunbar?” Sherlock pushed his food away, uneaten, not noticing that Molly had leaned back unhappily.

“She’s a quiet girl, keeps to herself. Some might think she is pretty, but I think she is plain. She is good with the children, but awkward with everyone else. I believe this is her first job. I can’t believe Neil would be interested in her!”

“Does that mean you do not believe he would kill his wife to be with Grace?”

Luciana considered his question. “Perhaps not. Do you know I saw her that day, too? The day Maria was murdered.”

“Tell me more.”

“Neil had called when Maria didn’t come home, thinking she may have stopped by my home. Naturally I was alarmed and went to their house. It was Grace’s day off apparently, but Neil had texted her and she had come right over. The poor girl didn’t even know how to put a decent outfit together.”

In the dark booth, Molly blushed furiously.

“How do you mean, Ms. De Silva?”

“She had on sweatpants, a bulky long coat, and pale pink and white trainers!” Luciana looked at Molly knowingly. “Can you imagine?”

Molly wondered if she had ever worn an outfit like that.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and you too, Dr. Hooper, for letting me know how things stand about my poor sister.” Ms. De Silva slid effortlessly out of the booth.

After she left, Sherlock steepled his fingers. “Very interesting.”

“What is?”

But he didn’t answer. Instead he stared thoughtfully into space as she absently finished her dinner.

The cab ride back to her home was nothing like the one to the museum. Gone was her sense of great anticipation for what the evening would bring, but Molly still thought maybe she could salvage something of their evening.

“Would you like to come in for a minute?”

“All right.”

Sherlock strode into her flat and sat on her couch. Reaching for her laptop, he gave Molly a brilliant smile that made butterflies take flight in her stomach.

“Have to check something,” he said.

Molly sat next to him and watched as Sherlock rapidly opened search windows, looking up and memorizing data on different types of soil. He was so close to her now, she could forgive him for this evening because everything she always had wanted was just inches away, hardly any distance at all. Feeling intoxicated by the moment, Molly tilted her head and brushed her lips lightly across his cheek.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice cut threw her romantic haze like a straightedge razor.

Flushed, Molly kept from crying by reassuring herself that at least he didn’t look repulsed. He appeared more perplexed than anything.

She cleared her throat. “We should call it a night. Early morning shift and all.”

“As a matter of fact John and I are going to the crime scene first thing in the morning.” Sherlock rose and walked to the door. “Good night, Molly.”

~s~s~s~s~

“Un-freaking-believable. What a stupid git,” Sarah declared after Molly finished recounting the previous evening, detail by painful detail. The friends had met at a coffee shop near St. Bart’s the next day when Molly had a break the next morning.

“I know Sherlock likes me, in his own way,” Molly said. “But I don’t think he feels the way I do.”

“He does like you,” Sarah said with a smile.

“Then why won’t he…”

“What?” Sarah looked at her friend searchingly.

“Why won’t he kiss me?” Molly cried out.

Sarah was taken back, but she didn’t know why. This was Sherlock, after all. “He hasn’t tried?”

Molly slowly shook her head. “He doesn’t even seem interested.”

“Oh.”

“I know I’m not the most beautiful woman,” she began softly.

Sarah quickly interrupted. “Don’t you dare, Molly Hooper. You are beautiful. He’s an idiot.”

Molly took a sip of her now-cold tea. “What should I do?”

“This is only my opinion, OK? But if Sherlock doesn’t know how to function in a relationship, you need to help him,” Sarah advised. “Don’t let him run away just because he isn’t a genius about it. And don’t let him ride roughshod over you with his bad behavior.”

“I can try,” Molly said.

Sarah gave a little laugh. “God knows I wouldn’t have the patience to do it, but you’re sweeter than I am. If you want this to work, you need to tell him what you want.”

Seeing Molly’s uncertainty, Sarah looked her friend squarely in the eyes. “You deserve the best. If he isn’t willing to change, even though you love him, you may have to face the fact that maybe Sherlock isn’t the right man for you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

John stood at the top of the small hill that overlooked the main section of the park. Through the wispy fog he could barely make out the outline of Thor Bridge. Walking in his military way, he quickly followed the paved path down the gentle slope. His nose told him he was approaching Thor Pond.

Park planners had hoped the pond would be a tranquil place for quiet reflection. They carefully landscaped around it with colored gravel and ornamental grasses to add to the atmosphere, not taking into account that a species of grass would take over the pond and make it an ugly, odorous bog. Not even yearly cleanings could completely rid the water of the thick, reedy plant. Like a cancer it fought its way back to life and quickly overtook the water again within weeks. On this early spring morning, however, the reeds and grasses remained thick, dead, and slumped over.

As for Thor Bridge itself, it was nothing remarkable, just simple stonework with a slight rise in the center that traversed the pond at the far end. John crossed it in a matter of seconds then stopped when he reached the spot he knew Maria Gibson’s body had been found. Thinking of this young mother, he felt a deep despair for the dead woman.

“This is not the last thing she saw.”

Sherlock’s voice rang out from the mist. With his dark coat surrounding him, the detective resembled an avenging angel on the scene to mete out justice as he stepped out of the fog in front of his best friend.

John rolled his eyes. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

Sherlock put his hands on his slim hips. “From your sad and overly sentimental facial expression. And because you are staring at the crime scene, I can deduce you were imagining Maria Gibson’s last moments. But on the morning of her murder, it was clear with no fog. Everything would have looked differently.”

John peered through the haze. “Then coming from that hill, she could have seen her attacker, unless he was waiting in that copse of trees over there. But that doesn’t make sense, because her body was found here.”

“Or,” Sherlock proposed as he half walked, half slid down the bank to the water’s edge, “he could have been waiting down here. There is space under the bridge.”

John joined him and the two walked along the boggy water’s edge to a shadowy unpleasant patch of dirt that stretched from the water up to the foundation of the bridge. Observing the collection of cigarette stubs and trash under the bridge, John concluded that if people gathered there to party, passersby would be none the wiser.

“Yes, the killer could have been here, but how did he get out of the park without someone noticing? There would have been a large amount of blood spatter,” the doctor commented.

“This crime does not seem like a spontaneous attack by a homeless man. It was well thought out by someone who knew Maria’s routine. There are no heavy branches or metal work in the vicinity he could have picked up on the spur of the moment. The murderer brought his weapon with him, therefore he could have also brought and hidden a change of clothes. Because it was early on a brutally cold morning, there may not have been many people in the park.”

John agreed. “And he more than likely didn’t take the main way out, either.”

A cat, very close nearby, let out a warning growl. Sherlock moved a discarded cardboard box, revealing a feral tabby with a litter of kittens.

“She probably witnessed the whole thing,” Sherlock murmured and placed the box back. He took his mobile out of his coat pocket and quickly sent a text. A moment later his phone chimed in response.

“Our client will meet us at the Gibson home to facilitate our talking to Grace Dunbar.”

As they walked back up the bank, Sherlock crouched down and rubbed dirt between his fingers. “Ornamental grasses. Bog. Reeds. Make note of that, John.”

“Why?”

Sherlock focused on an unseen object in the distance. “She said something at dinner last night.”

“What did Molly say?”

“Not Molly. Our client.”

John held up his right hand like a teacher commanding a student to stop. “You had dinner with Ms. De Silva last night? But you were with Molly.”

“I was with both.”

“You invited another woman on your date with Molly?” Even as the words left John’s mouth, he couldn’t believe he was saying it.

“It was not another woman. It was our client, who really should have contacted you in the first place.” Sherlock snapped a tall reed in half and tossed it on the ground before glancing at his fuming friend. “Not good?”

John felt so angry on Molly’s behalf that he didn’t trust himself to speak for several seconds. When he did, his voice was low and controlled.

“Not good? I can’t believe what a colossal jerk you are! So what happened when you took Molly home? You at least did that, didn’t you?”

“Of course I took her home,” Sherlock replied indignantly and climbed to the top of the bank.  

John quickly followed. “Did you tell her you had a great time? Did you compliment her? Did you kiss her good night?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered downward for a second.

An exasperated John said, “Please tell me that you at least acted like you wanted to be with her!”

“Of course I want to be with her. She knows that.”

“Actions speak louder than words. And in your case, you don’t even say the words!” John crossed the bridge briskly. “You need to apologize, if she’ll even listen to anything you have to say.”

“Why are you concluding that Molly will be so angry that she will not listen to me? That is not true. You yourself have told me that Molly cares for me.”

John stopped and spun on his heels. “You can’t continue to treat her badly and expect her to keep coming back for more. There is a thin line between love and hate, Sherlock.”

Seeing the wounded look on his friend’s face, John softened.

“You really are the most clueless git in the world, aren’t you?”

~s~s~s~s~

The Gibsons’ Holland Park townhouse was not what John Watson expected. From the outside it looked like any other house in the quiet and lovely neighborhood. But when Luciana De Silva opened the door for him and the detective, the doctor saw the inside was incredibly lavish.

Noticing his expression, Luciana leaned in. “You should see the country estate or the New York apartment.”

“We would like to speak to Miss Dunbar,” Sherlock stated.

“She is in the game room, waiting for the children.” The petite woman led them down a flight of stairs to a room equipped with a pool table and every type of gaming system connected to a large flat screen TV. In a large blue recliner sat a young woman.

John’s first impression of Grace Dunbar was that one of a quiet country girl who was out of place in such an opulent home. She was of average height with long strawberry blonde hair that she wore parted on the side. The color of her cornflower blue eyes was lovely, but she had applied heavy black eyeliner to the point that they looked small and close together. She wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a ruffled top that looked a little too fancy for someone spending the afternoon watching two children.

“This is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They have a few questions to ask you about Mrs. Gibson,” Luciana said authoritatively.

The change in the girl was subtle, but Sherlock noticed how she folded her arms across her chest.

“Certainly, Ms. De Silva,” she said woodenly. “John and Sophie are upstairs getting their coats for our bike ride.”

“I will see to them while you talk.” Luciana nodded.

After their client had left the room, Sherlock gave Grace an endearing smile.

“I know you want to be with the children, so we will not take keep you long,” he said in one of the friendliest tones John had ever hear him fake. “You must be a great comfort to them during this terrible time.”

The girl visibly relaxed. “Thank you. I’m going my best to keep things normal for them. What would you like to know?”

“How long have you worked for the Gibsons?”

“Eight months. Before that I was in school and worked part-time in a crèche.”

“It must have been quite an adjustment to get used to London life,” Sherlock said sympathetically.

“Yes.” Grace smiled slightly. “It was a big adjustment to leave my mum and my brothers.”

“And your father?” John asked.

Her smile quickly faded. “Never knew the bloke.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Tell me what you thought of Mrs. Gibson.”

“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.” Her voice trailed off demurely, but her eyes hardened.

“We just want the truth, Miss Dunbar,” said John.

Grace studied her hands with interest. “Mrs. Gibson could be demanding. I’ve never seen a man work as hard as Mr. Gibson does, but Mrs. Gibson didn’t appreciate him at all.”

Sherlock forced his expression to be one of shock. “But I heard Mr. Gibson was mean while his wife was kind and supportive.”

“No! That’s what his business enemies want you to think,” she said angrily. “The truth is Neil is kind and loving.”

“Very interesting,” Sherlock stared at the ceiling as if he were working things out. “So Mr. Gibson would have no reason for wanting his wife dead.”

“None at all,” Grace said definitively. “He was on a Skype call when Mrs. Gibson went for her Sunday run.”

“How do you know that if Sunday was your day out?” John asked.

She flushed pink, but unlike Molly’s frequent blushes, Grace’s was blotchy and unattractive. “Mr. Gibson must have told me about it the night before.”

“Mr. Gibson is in the habit of discussing his business meetings with you?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be puzzled.

Flustered, the girl said, “We talk sometimes.”

“Back to Mrs. Gibson. What else can you tell us about her,” Sherlock said.

“She thought very highly of herself. Always primping. Never passed a mirror without looking in it,” the nanny said with a jealous tone.

“Some say she was a remarkably beautiful woman,” John said nonchalantly.

“Perhaps. I never thought so.” Grace drew herself up in her chair.

“Just one more question, Miss Dunbar. What had you planned to do that Sunday?”

Grace smoothed down her hair. “Spend time with my friends. I have a room here of course, but I also share a flat with some girls. That’s where I was. At my flat. All morning.”

“Of course that all changed when you received that call from Mr. Gibson,” the detective said compassionately.

Grace nodded. “Yes, of course. I came right over. John and Sophie needed me.”

“It sounds like you must care very much for those dear children,” Sherlock said.

“They are like my own kids.”

“Thank you, Miss Dunbar. You have been ever so helpful. Oh excuse me!” Sherlock’s mobile flew from his hand and landed at the girl’s feet.

The detective and the nanny both knelt at the same time to pick it up. “Thank you so much,” Sherlock said as she handed it to him. “Will you also be riding a bike with the children?”

“No,” Grace said. “I’ll be walking Roscoe, our terrier.”

“Do the children have other pets? I hear they can be soothing during upsetting times.”

The nanny smiled briefly. “No, we only have Roscoe.”

“Thank you again,” Sherlock said and pumped the girl’s hand. “Have a good afternoon!”

As the girl ascended the stairs, Sherlock’s countenance resumed its normal intense focus. “That is what I needed to know.”

“She’s obviously in love with Gibson,” John whispered, “but I don’t see how anything else she said could be of use to us.”

“You see, but you don’t observe. Come, John. We need to visit Lestrade.”


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing cleared the cobwebs from Molly’s head like a brisk walk on the treadmill. And when she had Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” cranked up, she felt as if she could take on the world, or at least feel better about the situation with Sherlock.

She had lain in bed mulling over what Sarah had said about him not being right for her, no matter how much she loved him. Perhaps she was right. The day after their first date had passed without word from him. Molly hadn’t expected him to text, but maybe she secretly hoped he would. Now it was Saturday and still nothing. Deciding against feeling sorry for herself, she headed to the gym but kept an eye on her phone.

Molly made a game up of not checking her mobile until she had walked another mile. Now finishing her sixth mile, she felt a little pathetic, Kelly Clarkson or not. As she slowed her pace and removed her ear buds, the middle-aged woman on the treadmill next to her smiled in a friendly way.

“My first day at the gym,” the woman panted. “I’m trying to work up to a mile.”

Molly smiled. “Good for you.”

Gesturing to Molly’s mobile, the woman said, “Your young man. He hasn’t called?”

The pathologist grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been there, done that,” the woman laughed. “How long have you two been dating?”

“One week tomorrow.” Molly took her pace down to a crawl. “We’ve known each other for years, though.”

“Does he usually call you a lot?” the woman asked.

“No.” Molly bristled a little. “I was just hoping… I don’t know, that maybe since we’re dating that he would start.”

“May I offer a little advice, dear?”

Not seeing a way to avoid the well-intentioned woman, Molly nodded politely.

“When I married Frank, I hoped he would stop going to the pub after work. After I ate a lot of dinners alone, I realized he wasn’t going to change. So, I either joined him for a pint or we ate later. All of this is to say, if this young man didn’t call you before last week, don’t expect him to change now.” With a wave, the woman stopped her treadmill and walked off.

Molly frowned as she wiped down the equipment. The woman had been nosy, but what she said rang true. Sherlock sent her texts only when he wanted something or had important information to convey. He wasn’t going to change his behavior because they went on one date. Feeling considerably more at peace, Molly headed home to change.

~s~s~s~s~

Around the time Molly was finishing mile number one, John opened the door of 221B Baker Street for their client.

“Ms. De Silva, please come in.”

“The funeral is soon,” she said shortly, taking off large sunglasses to reveal bloodshot eyes. “I can’t be late.”

“I will be brief then.” Sherlock looked like a triumphant Cheshire cat. “The police have released the homeless man and arrested Grace Dunbar for your sister’s murder.”

Faltering as she lowered herself into John’s chair, Luciana’s eyes widened. “Grace?”

“Grace Dunbar, the young woman with whom Neil Gibson was having an affair, attacked Maria at Thor Bridge.”

“It wasn’t Neil?”

With a small smile, Sherlock shook his head. “I discovered circumstantial evidence that placed Grace at the crime scene. Once I presented those facts to Detective Inspector Lestrade, he began to consider her as a suspect.”

Near tears, Luciana turned her liquid brown eyes to John. “I don’t understand. Why would Grace kill Maria?”

“It goes back to Gibson.” John handed her a cup of tea.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Sherlock walked slowly back and forth as he began to explain.

“Gibson no doubt said whatever it took to convince Grace to sleep with him. Maybe he even told her he would get a divorce. For him, she was a conquest, nothing special, one in a long line of meaningless one-night stands. What he did not know was that Grace is of a particular disturbed temperament. She took his promises at face value. Her so-called love for your brother-in-law grew into something dark and twisted.

“She believed that if Maria was out of the picture, she could be with Gibson,” the detective continued. “She knew your sister’s habit of running on Sunday mornings and waited for her beneath Thor Bridge. It was there that the unique combination of water, dirt, and certain plant life stained her white shoes light pink, which you saw. As much as she tried to clean them, around the laces and near the tongues there are still distinctive pink stains, which I noticed when I pretended to drop my mobile at her feet. In addition, she has a large scratch on the back of her hand that she received from an angry mother cat that lives beneath the bridge.”

“That seems very circumstantial,” Luciana said dubiously.

“True,” agreed John. “But because of Gibson’s affair with Grace, Lestrade came to see that he needed to consider this angle. Sherlock challenged him to at least have the crime lab check out Grace’s shoes.”

“Although he resisted at first, Gibson allowed the police to search his home yesterday,” Sherlock said. “Fortunately for us, Miss Dunbar had left her shoes in the laundry room. Because Gibson as owner of the house had given his permission for the police to search, she could have no expectation of privacy in a common area. Lestrade got the crime lab to test the stains quickly, which proved to be definitive as was the decorative gravel from the pond area that had become lodged into the grooves of the soles.”

“It was enough to bring Grace in for questioning,” John said. “After applying pressure in the interrogation room, Lestrade got her to confess. She is quite unbalanced.”

“I do not think in any of my previous cases I have ever run across a stranger case of what perverted love can bring about.” Sherlock’s pale face was drawn.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I’m grateful there is justice for my sister.” With tears spilling over, Luciana hastily put on her sunglasses.

“Where is her service to be held?” John asked politely as he walked her to the door.

“Our Lady of Peace. That’s also where she will be buried.”

“You loved him very much,” the detective stated unexpectedly.

“What?” Luciana whirled around.

“There is a thin line between love and hate, or so I am told. You once loved Neil Gibson very much.”

Luciana’s lower lip trembled. “He always preferred Maria.”

~s~s~s~s~

After drumming his fingers relentlessly, Sherlock announced, “I want to go to the graveside service.”

Normally Sherlock wouldn’t have attended a victim’s funeral, especially after he had solved the case. But as he told John on the way to the cemetery, he had his reasons for wanting to see Gibson one last time.

By the time they arrived, mourners already had scattered like dark flower petals across the monument-strewn lawn. Gibson, decked out in a new black suit, waved those that remained away from him. He stood alone by the bier holding a single white rose.

“Your client has already left with the children,” Gibson said as the pair approached.

“We are here to pay our respects,” said John coldly.

“My children are without a mother because I set in motion a chain of events that led to her murder,” Gibson said in uncommon self-reflection. “She would be alive if it weren’t for me.”

“That is true.” The detective rested his piercing blue eyes on the white coffin.

The tycoon smirked. “You don’t soften the blow any, do you, Holmes? You’re like me in many ways.”

Sherlock gave him a strange look.

“I did love her,” Gibson said offhandedly.

“Then why did you cheat on her?” John asked in disgust.

“I never claimed to be a saint, Dr. Watson.” The “Gold King” tossed the rose on the casket.

“I think I hate that man,” John said to Sherlock as they returned to their waiting cab. “Why did you need to see him?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued his rant. “Maria loved him, but he cheated on her. Luciana loved him, but he drove her to hate him. Grace loved him after he manipulated her into having sex. In the end, one is dead, one is in mourning, and one is a murderer. What kind of charm did he have?”

“It was their youth and naïveté. Think about it, John. Luciana and Maria were just girls when they met him. Grace is rather young and sheltered.”

“And disturbed,” John added. “He’s a bastard.”

“I do not want to be like him,” Sherlock said sharply.

John looked at him in surprise. “You aren’t.”

Raising his eyebrows, the detective stared at his best friend pointedly. “Gibson is cold, intelligent, manipulative, focused.”

John sharply drew in a breath. “Oh! I see how you might think there are similarities, but Gibson is heartless. You care deeply. I know you do.”

“I may have been an arse with Molly the other night.” Sherlock stared out the cab window.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“I may need your help to make it up to her.”

John grinned. “There may be hope for you and her yet.”

~s~s~s~s~

“Boys! What on earth are you doing?”

Alarmed at the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor, Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. She discovered John cleaning the kitchen within an inch of its life and Sherlock moving the smaller pieces of furniture out of the living room.

“Sherlock is having a romantic dinner with Molly tonight,” John called over the banging of pots and pans.

“How nice,” she exclaimed. “How are you going to decorate?”

“I thought we’d hang some of those little twinkly lights on the mantle,” John said.

“We are moving the kitchen table in to the living room,” Sherlock reported.

“Do you have china?” she asked.

“We have dishes.”

“You want to set a nice table, don’t you? Put out good china. That’s important. And a nice tablecloth?”

Noticing the two men exchange a baffled look, Mrs. Hudson smiled understandingly. “What time is Molly coming over?”

“I did not ask her yet,” Sherlock realized. “I will send her a text.”

Like a general taking charge of her troops, Mrs. Hudson took his mobile away from him. “I’ll just help a little, shall I? Let’s start by sending her some roses.”

~s~s~s~s~

Between Mrs. Hudson and John, the flat was spotless and, one might say, beautiful. The two had spent the afternoon planning every detail of the evening, running out to pick up something, and decorating. Feeling strangely out of place in his own rooms, Sherlock settled on picking out the music. He wanted to play Sibelius, but Mrs. Hudson said it made her anxious, so he relented and put on Mozart.

When they had finished, strings of little lights intertwined with gossamer ribbon looped over the mantel and hung from the curtain rods. Covered by Mrs. Hudson’s lovely a white damask tablecloth, Sherlock’s kitchen table was centered on her soft pastel rug in the middle of the living area. A purple table runner stretched from one end of the table to the other and in the middle of it was a bouquet of mixed blossoms and several soft-burning white pillar candles. The table was set with understated white china rimmed in gold and crystal wine glasses. Warming in the oven was dinner from one of Mrs. Hudson’s favorite Greek restaurants.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as she was leaving.

“Have a wonderful evening, dear.”

“Remember to apologize,” John cautioned as he put on his jacket.

“You may not believe me, but I do want my understanding with Molly to get back on the right track.”

John snorted derisively, causing Sherlock to look over sharply. “What is so funny?”

“When are you going to just call this what it is?” John said. “It’s not an ‘understanding’; it’s love.”

“I do not know how to love anyone.” Sherlock’s voice was flat.

“I know that’s what you think. But that doesn’t mean you don’t love,” John said simply. “Try not to mess it up, yeah?”

~s~s~s~s~

Molly had just gotten ready to head out to the shops when the red roses arrived. Tucked in the tissue paper was a card that read, “Dinner tonight at eight. 221B Baker Street. SH.” She had spent the rest of the day in bubbly anticipation. She lighted out of the cab and practically danced up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. The door stood wide open so she walked in and stood in awe at the effort he had obviously put into the evening.

“You came,” Sherlock observed as he crossed the room.

“This is lovely! Oh, these are fairy lights!” Molly cried in delight.

“I am glad you like it. That blouse is, um, a very good choice for your coloring.” As Molly looked down at the green silk, Sherlock added awkwardly, “I like it.”

“Thank you. I can’t believe you did all of this. The roses, the table, everything is beautiful.”

As he pulled out her chair, Sherlock asked, “Would you like some wine?”

“That sounds wonderful.” Molly watched the detective carefully. He was behaving properly, but his body language was wrong. He looked as if he was ready to jump out of his skin. “Is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?” Sherlock filled her glass.

“You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“I wanted to make amends for the other night.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like to eat now? The food is ready.”

“Sherlock, please tell me what’s wrong.”

With a sigh, Sherlock dropped into his chair.

“I didn’t do this,” he admitted quietly.

“Do what?”

“This dinner. John and Mrs. Hudson arranged it all.” He punched every sentence. “Romance is not my area.”

“It’s OK.” Molly reached for his hand, but he pushed away from the table.

Standing by the window, the silver moonlight hit the high planes of his angular face. “I am not like most men.”

Molly smiled and took a sip of wine. “And you think I don’t know that? The man who beats corpses in my morgue with a riding crop? Who keeps thumbs in a Mason jar? No, you aren’t like most men. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“I recently met someone who served as a mirror for some of my worst qualities.” He looked at her darkly.

“How so?”

Sherlock only shook his head. “Perhaps it would be best if we stopped our understanding now.”

To his surprise, Molly didn’t become upset. Instead she daintily wiped her mouth and returned the cloth napkin to the table. “Oh, no you don’t. You aren’t getting out of this that easily.”

Sherlock locked eyes with her as she stood. “You do not seem to perceive what I am like.”

“I told you I needed to learn something from my time with Todd. And before him Moriarty.” She paused as Sherlock sneered at the names. “I didn’t see them for who they really were. I saw only what I wanted to see. With you, however, I know exactly what I’m in for. And I’m all in.”

“Then you are a fool,” he muttered indistinctly.

Molly came a few steps closer. “We can do our _understanding_ any way we want to. How about this? I’ll let you know what I want to do, like go to an exhibit. If we don’t agree, we’ll work on a compromise, but we’ll work on it together.”

“Your friendship is one of the two most important of my life.” He sounded almost tentative.

“We won’t lose what we already have,” she reassured him gently. “So, let’s give this a try. After dinner, what would you like to do?”

“I have an experiment on blood coagulation with which I could use your assistance.” Sherlock breathed in her light, clean perfume.

Molly deliberately closed the distance between them. “I can help you with that, but in a little while, OK?”

As she reached up and smoothed down the lapels of his suit coat, Sherlock realized much to his surprise that he didn’t feel any trepidation standing so close to her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on how she made him feel, but he knew he was safe.

“What would you like to do, Molly?”

His pathologist took a deep breath.

“Kiss.”

“Kiss?” Sherlock’s rich, baritone voice caught.

“And not a peck on the cheek,” Molly said firmly. “I want you to kiss me.”

Sherlock took note of her increased respirations and the firm set of her jaw. A picture of determined vulnerability, Molly was resolved to show him that she wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t going to leave him.

She was all in.

As the twinkling lights created a shower of stars to fall across her flushed cheeks, he finally realized what it was she made him feel.

Overwhelmed with countless and unnamed emotions, Sherlock took her hands in his. Slowly he brought them to his lips and kissed each one as he looked deeply into her warm brown eyes.

“Molly Hooper, I can help you with that right now.”

 


End file.
